Rain
by AtomicScribble
Summary: [AU] Larsa always had trouble when he was sent out on errands these days.


**Crossover oneshot for the book **_**The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing **_**by M.T. Anderson. And if you haven't read it, READ IT. It's a great book.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Larsa or **_**The Astonishing Life.**_

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Horse's hooves clacked audibly on the cobblestones of the grimy street, echoing off of the soaked buildings. It had been raining since the sun had risen that morning...or had it even done that? No one could tell, as the sky was so shrouded in grey clouds that not one bit of light could seep through. The city's rancid smell was increased tenfold by the rain, the smell of human sweat and horse dung and dirt hanging in the air like a sullen, fat cat hanging in the sun.

And on the sidewalk in this same dirty city is where young Larsa found himself.

His black hair hung sopping wet in front of his face, bangs hanging in his eyes as he tried once again to read over the note he was holding. He had covered the paper with one gloved hand, shielding it unsuccessfully from the rain. Standing hunched over in a doorway, Larsa tossed his hair out of his face to save the already running ink from more dampness.

Mr. 03-01, the jittering owner of the mansion Larsa and his brother Vayne had spent their entire lives in (well, entire in the case of Larsa, as far as he knew), exercised the same amount of unused and unnessecary nervous energy in his writing as his speech and movements. The words frolicked around the page, the lines going this way and that so often that Larsa had to take extra time to check the adress again to make sure he was heading the right way. Only recently had he been allowed to enter the city alone after coming of age, and he had yet to find his way around without asking for directions.

But who would provide him directions anymore? Although he was indeed a prince, he was a prince of a foreign land that no one knew about or cared for. In Boston's eyes, he was nothing more than a servant of some rich master.

After finally figuring out what Mr. 03-01 was trying to say, he whispered the words to himself, his English accent, inherited from the many scientists he was surrounded with daily, being audibly enriched by the stocky brick buildings around him. "Number one hundred and four, Milk Street." He looked up at the sky and sighed, realizing that he was indeed going in the wrong direction all along.

He shoved the note messily in his overcoat pocket, and stepped out into the shower pounding down from above; regardless, he had to press on.

Not many people enjoyed coming out of their cozy houses in Boston in the rain, but the few that did showed the same amount of coldness as the crowds on a fine, sunny day. Larsa weaved his way past the people that were out on, dipping out of peoples' way before they could smash into him and avoiding eye contact, as he had been taught. Although many of them were servants much like the ones he had observed in his own house (and the ranks of which he had recently been added to), they acted as if they were rushing, important businessmen. The one or two that he did bump into he mumbled hasty apologies to and scurried off before they could open their mouths to shout out their distaste at his actions.

After about a half-an-hour of this scurrying and occasional apologizing, Larsa found himself standing in front of the house he was looking for. The dark curtains had been drawn shut, as if the owner were hiding some huge beast inside. He hastily shook his hair out and stepped into the overhang of the doorway before he could get any wetter, and without hesitation pounded the brass doorhandle, wincing as the sound rang loudly in his ears.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," a gruff voice shouted out from the other side as heavy footsteps pulled their owner slowly to the door. Larsa waited patiently, straightening his posture and removing the note from his coat pocket in preperation of what was to come.

A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal an intimidating, scruffy man, hunched over with his mouth turned downward in what looked to be a permanant scowl. His right eye remained firmly shut as he looked Larsa up and down, like a bear sizing up its next meal. The man leaned heavily on his cane as he spat out, "Who be ye?"

Larsa bowed as low as his back would permit him and held out the note. "Good day, sir. I've been sent from Mr. Gitney of the College of Lucidity to bring you a message. He requests that-"

But before he could explain himself further, the man reached forward and snatched the paper from Larsa's outstretched hand and looked over it quickly with his one bloodshot eye. Larsa's lips pursed as he restrained himself from letting out a frustrated sigh; this must've been the millionth time that he had been interrupted from his recited speech, yet he couldn't say a word. As far as everyone else was concerned, he was nothing more than one of Mr. 03-01's lowly messengers, and if he were to betray that belief then the College of Lucidity would find itself in very deep trouble.

Finally the man looked back to Larsa and grinned crookedly, saying in his gruff voice, "Thank ya for yer trouble. I've been waiting for this here message. Tell Mr. Gitney that I've accepted his proposal."

With that the man turned on his heel and slammed the wooden door shut in Larsa's face, leaving Larsa alone in the rain once more. He blinked slowly and bit his lip, reaching into his coat pocket for the list of errands he had been assigned to do that rainy afternoon as he stepped back out and walked slowly back in the direction from whence he came.


End file.
